


Oaths Better Broken

by Books in the Blood (WholockHobbit88)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Assisted Suicide, Drug Use, Friendship, M/M, Romance, Sherlock canon - Freeform, Terminal Illnesses, Tragedy, Tragic Romance, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-17 11:56:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9322496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WholockHobbit88/pseuds/Books%20in%20the%20Blood
Summary: After a long absence, Holmes shows up in Watson's flat with a secret about his health. John is devastated and he thinks he can't possibly be more stunned until Sherlock shares a deeper secret about his feelings for John. When Sherlock asks for help with one last task, John knows that he can never say no, no matter how much it breaks him inside. Tragic Victorian Johnlock





	1. Chapter 1

As extraordinary as my association of nearly twenty years was with my friend and colleague Sherlock Homes was, both as his trusted assistant and his sometimes bemoaned biographer, the abrupt ending to our acquaintance was even more surreal. As much discomfort as it caused me to suddenly find Holmes gone from London, almost as if he had fallen off the face of the Earth, it wasn't nearly as painful as the brief, shocking period in which he came to me, only to then disappear forever.

I have chronicled countless cases of Holmes' and have notes on dozens that have yet to be published. I have sought in each account to give a portrayal of how brilliant and talented my dear friend was and hope that that is how the public will always remember him; as the savior of so many souls who thought their problems were hopeless until brought to Holmes' fantastic abilities. But this account, the most difficult I have ever wrote and one for my own personal remembrance and nothing else, shows the humanity and heart of the man I alone knew.

It was a bitterly cold day in January, at the turn of a new century when Holmes made his appearance yet again into my life. It was not an uncommon occurrence that I went for extended periods without seeing my friend, having taken up my own home with my wife and busying myself with my private practice. But this particular absence of Holmes' was not common. It was at the height of one of his best periods, when problems were dropping onto his doorstep faster than even he could solve them and it was everything that he could possibly hope for when he simply disappeared. After not receiving any message to several telegrams I had sent him, I went around to the home we had shared for so long to find it as it always had looked but obviously, even in its usual disarray, neglected. When I spoke to the landlady, Mrs. Hudson, she said that Holmes had not been home in several weeks. While I knew he could take care of himself well enough, this was still long enough of an absence that I felt I should look into the matter. When I inquired of his brother Mycroft at his usual haunt of the Diogenes club, he told me that Holmes was away on holiday that he had received several letters from Holmes and that he was doing very well. When I asked for more details and even hinted that I would like to see the letters, Mycroft Holmes grew cold and made it known in so many words that he did not want to be pressed on the matter.

I tried to calm my mind on the matter but found it in the front of mind as weeks turned into months with no sign of Holmes. When I walked into my home that snowy afternoon to find Holmes standing in my sitting room as if he had never disappeared I felt myself grow weak.

Standing by the window, staring out at the street below he looked as always I remembered him, impeccably groomed and dressed as he always had. It was only when he turned to face me that I saw that all was not as it should be. Holmes' face, usual very pale, was almost corpse like in its lack of color, except for his eyes which had dark circles around them, giving him the appearance of someone very ill and declining fast.

When he turned toward me to speak, seeing that I was stunned into silence, he took a ragged breath that rattled in his chest painfully before trying a weak smile. "John, I hope that I did not frighten you. Mycroft tells me that my absence has been plaguing you" he said in his usual, lighthearted tone. It did little to make me feel relieved. Everything about this was wrong from his long absence to his sickened appearance to his use of my Christian name, never having used it before.

"You've never called me John before" I said, lamely. I was trying to ignore the truth that was so painfully speaking to me in Holmes' features.

Holmes smiled again but it seemed forced and unnatural on his tired features. "After two decades of intimate acquaintance I think it's high time we used each other's Christian names" he said, taking several deep breaths as if the sentence had caused him much pain.

"You've been gone months. Your brother said you were on holiday" I said, knowing shock still heavily weighed on my features.

"And you don't believe him?" Holmes said, raising an eyebrow.

"No. You don't take holidays, at least not without my insisting you take one" I told him.

Holmes grinned; I was glad to see that despite a large lack of light in his eyes, there was still the sparkle that I very rarely saw when he was pleased with me. "Excellent deduction" he told me.

It was then, after taking a breath that rattled through Holmes' chest like wind through chimes that he pressed a handkerchief to his mouth and gave the worst ragged coughs, each one clearly pulling energy out of him that he didn't have. When he pulled his handkerchief back and tried to stuff it into his pocket without my seeing it, he wasn't quite quick enough. I saw it was clearly covered in blood. It seemed as if the very ground beneath my feet was moving, my heart beating in my chest with extreme effort as if my veins had suddenly filled with iron; I had to grab onto a nearby chair to keep my balance. I wanted to be wrong but the eyes that met mine at the realization showed clearly the sorrow I felt in my own soul reflected back. My friend, my confidant had contracted the much dreaded scourge that was tuberculosis. And by the appearance of him he didn't have much time left for this world.

"Yes…..very astute" Holmes said, nodding satisfied as if I had merely solved a trifle in a case of no importance. "You can see now why I had to leave. Though I always mocked your medical capabilities as that of a mere general doctor, in truth, when it came to my health you were the most capable and sharp doctor that I have ever known. You would have known instantly.'

Despite my desire to appear strong, I found I had to sink into a chair. Looking ragged and unbelievably weary, Holmes took my sitting as a cue and sat down himself. He looked so tired, as if every breath and word spent so much energy out of him. He looked like a shadow that might blow away with the smallest wind.

"Please say I'm wrong" I beseeched him. "For once, give me joy in knowing I'm wrong about something, Sherlock." I found that the emotion behind my words made it easy to slip into his Christian name. If he had as little time as I believed him to, then it hardly mattered how anything sounded.

Sherlock looked down at the ground, coughing into his handkerchief again, paining me by looking like he was trying to be discreet about it. As if discretion would help anything….I felt dizzy and weak with the realization. When I imagined where he might have been all of these months, somehow I always imagined he would come back. I didn't think it'd be for so short a time.

"I wish I could. If ever there was a time that I wanted to tell you were wrong, this is it. But sadly, you are not. I have been infected for some time now. I have been away, at the coast, trying to soothe my failing health." Sherlock said.

The sorrow inside of me felt like an open wound. All of these months, Sherlock had been extremely ill with tuberculosis and he'd been alone. As his friend and one who had long seen to make it his mission to be his personal doctor, it caused me agony to think of him suffering alone when I could have been nursing him. It seemed the universe was impossibly cruel that I could not cure him, but I could have at least eased some of his pain. But, as so often was the case, he pushed my away when he could have let me in. While I had always accepted this about him, it hurt now more than ever it had; soon he wouldn't be here and there was so much time that I had lost with him.

"Why?" I asked, the word sounding far too unsteady as it came from my lips, "Why did you leave? Why did you feel you had to hide it?"

Sherlock took several fortifying breaths before he spoke. "I simply did not want anyone to know" he said, "I am more known now than ever before and I didn't want the whole of London inquiring about my health, or worse, pitying me. Besides, I hardly wanted to take any chances infecting any other poor souls with my affliction. I made to simply disappear and the world could know of my fate when they read of my passing in the papers.'

It was so callous, so inhuman. I struggled not to wince at the notion of never hearing from him and seeing his name in an obituary. "But why hide in from me?" I couldn't help but ask. "I thought that our friendship meant you could trust me"

It sounded bitter and childish coming out of my mouth and I was relieved when Sherlock didn't laugh as he undoubtedly would have under different circumstances. "Please don't be wounded, John" he said, seeming to actually feel sympathy for me. "Our friendship is precisely the reason I left you in the dark. It was so dear to me that I could not bear to see the pain in your eyes as you watched me suffer. I could not contemplate my mortality if I saw it in your eyes. I did not want to cause you undue pain…not after everything we have been through. Not after everything you have done for me."

I had never heard him speak so frankly and so emotionally about me. He'd always seemed detached, unemotional save for a few instances where we had faced mortality together. Facing his death, he was concerned about my feelings. It showed a depth of care that I did not think him capable of. "So why are you here now?" I asked, "Believe me, I am glad you are. I am glad you did not let me find out from the papers. But what has changed?"

Sherlock actually smiled at this, that glint back in his eyes. "I could not stay away," he said. "I fully intended to not disturb you more than was possible but I found I could not face the end without seeing you again. Since you are a physician and seem to be endowed with the blessing that the Creator has given to physicians to be more able to resist illness, I chanced to see you again; otherwise I wouldn't have taken my chance. I do not wish to cause you any pain but my selfish nature has gotten the better of me."

"I think it safe to say that you have more that earned the right to be a little selfish" I told him, feeling glad for the chair beneath me that was holding up my continuing to weaken frame, "Not that you are being selfish. You should not have to be alone."

"There is no where I would rather be. There is no one else I would rather see" Sherlock said, surprising me with his earnestness. I was embarrassed by the emotion in his eyes; it was so unnatural to what I was used to seeing but I was glad for it. Sherlock seemed embarrassed by it and covered his reddening face with a hand as he gave a little cough and quickly changed the subject.

"I am afraid that I must ask you for one last favor. A favor I don't deserve to ask but one I one I am asking all of the same." Sherlock said, glancing away from me in a way he himself would deduce as self-conscious. Sherlock had always been such a confident and assured man I was unaccustomed to the self-deprecation in his words. It caused me pain to see how the end of his life seemed to be making him aware of only his faults, real and false.

I answered as I had so many times before, without hesitation or pause. "Certainly. Anything" I said.

Sherlock smiled. "You will come away with me? I can't say precisely when you will be back." He said.

It was painfully aware that he did not say "we"; we both knew wherever we were going, he would not be coming back. It made me feel ill to think of it.

"I will go wherever you need me, without hesitation" I said with feeling. In that moment nothing else mattered. I had such precious little time left with my dearest friend that I could think of nothing else.

"That is the Watson I know best; always at the ready" Sherlock said with fondness. "Wont your dear wife miss you?"

"I will make her understand" I said simply, not wishing to speak of my wife at the moment. Ours was a relationship quickly failing, not the least of which had had several occasions of strife when it came to my dangerous acquaintance with Holmes.

Sherlock did not speak for a long moment, seeming to gather his nerve to say something else. It seemed to take much out of him, for when he spoke again, he looked too much like a corpse. "There is one thing I must tell you before you come with me. You should know before you come with me" he said.

I braced myself for another shock but spoke cool and composed. "Why?" I asked.

"Because if I tell you, you may change your mind about accompanying me" Sherlock said severely.

"Surely not. We have seen each other at our worst" I said, trying to lighten the mood. I could not imagine what he could possibly tell me that would make me desert him in his last hours.

Sherlock's mood did not lighten but seemed to grow more desperate. After starting to say something several times and stopping, he jumped up abruptly. "How about a bit of brandy, John? You look nearly faint," he said.

I could tell the brandy was entirely for his benefit but I did feel faint and was quick to agree. I took the glass he gave me with shaky hands and downed it quickly. I felt a little warmed but it did not seem to matter much; I still felt empty.

Sherlock, having taken the decanter with him, drank several drinks in quick succession, alarming me. It was obvious he was trying to fabricate a sense of bravery he didn't feel. He had never, to my knowledge, been afraid to talk to me.

After several large drinks and still shaking, I felt my alarm increase. "Whatever it is, you can surely tell me later?" I suggested, worried at seeing how affected he was, frail as he was.

"No! I cannot" Sherlock said, frightening in his intensity. "Though I would never wish to burden you with this knowledge I can continue no longer as such a fraud."

"I must admit you are startling me" I confessed. I knew all of his unsavory secrets, at least I thought I did. Was it possible he had, as some of the public had wondered, given up his great talents for the law to the ways of the street?

"Are you in trouble?" I prompted him, feeling panicked, reflexively tipping back my glass but finding it empty.

Sherlock shook his head vigorously as he topped off another drink, even his sickly cheeks now brightened with red. "No, it nothing like that. It is you, John" he said.

"Me?" I asked, wondering what he could mean.

Sherlock met my eyes and startled me with the honesty in them. "You wondered why I came back here now. It wasn't only because I wanted your help; it was because I could not imagine facing the end of my life without you" he said. At this point, he looked away, as if unable to look at me as he spoke the next.

"It is not fair of me to tell you this now but I feel I must. It will surely make you think less of me but I must at least end as an honest man" Sherlock said.

"There is nothing that would make me think less of you" I said honestly. Truthfully, at this point, in such a desperate moment even the revelation that he was a terrible murderer would have fazed me relativity little.

"You are so loyal" Sherlock said, smiling but still not looking at me. "You are loyal to a fault and it is only one of your many admirable qualities. You are an honest gentleman, a talented physician…..it hardly is fair for me to tell you that for a long time now my feelings for you have gone from those of my deepest friend to an affection that dare not speak its name. It's only my mortality that makes me say it now. To say I have the deepest affection for you would not be an understatement. Pray don't hate me for it."

"Wait…..what?" I asked, frowning in complete confusion. Whatever I had been expecting, it had not been that. My mind, so still struggling with the knowledge that Sherlock was near death was having a hard time absorbing such a strong revelation.

Sherlock could not have looked more embarrassed. "I of course don't expect you to act any different. I will not. I don't want to make you uncomfortable and I won't bring it up again if you don't want me to. I just wanted you to know fully of my feelings before you came away with me in case it made you not want to. Pray don't hate me."

To say I was stunned was an underestimate. For years I had sought, I believed unsuccessfully, for Sherlock's affection and attention. He had scorned me at worst and was indifferent at best. Had the circumstances not been so dire and Sherlock not looked so sick, I would have accused him of telling a joke. My mind felt like it was spinning. Five years ago the news of Oscar Wilde's trial had caused me, with the majority of London, to disdain the 'love that must not speak its name' with all of its shocking details. Why, when I had always found sodomy such a disgusting thing, did this not disgust me? I was biased I knew because it was Sherlock but there was nothing disgusting about him. He had never treated me in a bad way; had he not told me now he felt, I would never have known. His affection for me, while I now knew must have crossed a line society would have found question with, was far more than some paltry passion. I cared far too much for him to desert him now.

"Say something" Sherlock begged me, my pause having gone on for far too long. "Will you still come with me?"

"Of course I will" I said without hesitation.

Sherlock looked shocked. He honestly believed I would be so appalled by his affection for me that I would not go with him. "You will?" he asked. His assumption that I would hate him was harder to take than his meaningful secret. Nothing, not even the ugliest, grimmest truth could have possibly turned me away from him at this moment; certainly not the knowledge that I succeeded in gaining the love of the man who I had, somewhat subconsciously, been trying to gain for years.

I was suddenly aware of the absurdity of how far away we sat, me by the fireplace and he by the table. While the space did give me some comfort, a way to emotionally detach from the intensity of the situation, I found that I could not maintain it any longer. I got up from my place and took the chair opposite the table from Sherlock. He looked surprised, as if I were approaching a leper instead of my friend of twenty years.

His hands were lying atop the table, visibly shaking. Even I had the deductive abilities to see that it was a combination of nerves, his illness and whatever drugs he was using to soothe his illness. Tentatively, I lay my hand on top of his; they were thinner they ever had been, cold as stone to the touch. Though it was a foreign motion I gathered strength from it and I could see Sherlock visibly relax as well.

"Sherlock, you are and have always been my dearest friend" I told him. "There has never been anything that I would not do for you and that continues to remain true now. Nothing will turn me away; nothing will make me desert you. I care for you more than anyone else I have ever known."

There were, like Sherlock's words, words I would not have dared utter under other circumstances; I had hardly dared to feel them. Sherlock's presence in my life had been a rock, a strength I had drawn from even when I did not realize it. He was the final commanding officer to my obedient personality.

The look of trust and emotion deep in Sherlock's weary eyes meant everything to me. His hand gave mine the smallest squeeze of comfort back. True to his word, he didn't push me to talk about how I felt about his world shattering revelations; of that I was glad because I was not sure how I felt about it at all. "I am glad to be back with you, Watson" he said with a bright smile. He almost looked like his old self again.

I felt a small smile turning on my own lips. "Watson? I thought we were going by our Christian names now?" I said, feeling my normal humor surface for a moment.

Sherlock shrugged. "It is a hard habit to break" he said. Indeed it was; our using our surnames had nothing to with a lack of intimacy, rather it was just a comfortable habit.

Sherlock left me then; I was to pack my things to go away with him and he was to return in an hour. Walking to my room and closing the door tightly behind me despite my being entirely alone, my first task was not to begin gathering my positions. The first thing I did was fall heavily on my bed and weep bitterly.

Sherlock would be back in an hour and when he did I wanted all signs of my emotions to be long gone, even to his brilliant eyes. But I was completely and utterly heartbroken. I didn't want him to see it, lest I bring him down with my sorrow but I could hardly contain it in his presence.

Sherlock Holmes was dying….he had been a part of my life for so long that I did not know what I would be without him. While Sherlock was a mortal man of many destructive habits, all of which I had bemoaned on numerous occasions, I had always felt he would long outlive me. He was full of contradictions; while he was incredibly athletic, he was terribly lazy to the point of self-neglect at times. While he was usually in good health, he indulged heavily in drugs. He constantly consorted with the most dangerous of persons; he has sustained numerous injuries but was an amazingly quick healer. I always felt he'd be around forever.

Even as I struggled to believe that it was actually real, furious anger was already overtaking me like a dark cloud, making be burn with anger even as tears ran down my face. How could this happen? London needed Sherlock; what cruel force of the universe had stolen him? Everyone needed him…..I needed him. Had I not suffered enough in my life? Had I not lost enough people? What sin in my life was so great that the most important person to me was being stolen in this cruel manner?

I allowed myself to wallow in my self-pity and sorrow for twenty minutes before I began to pull myself together. Mopping my face heavily with a handkerchief I sought to pack and banish thoughts of Sherlock's mortality as much as I could. As for Sherlock's imitate feelings for me and my own uncertain ones…I could not even begin to examine them.

I was ready and standing on the street when Sherlock arrived for me. I took bitter pleasure in the fact that not even Sherlock could see any sign of my grief now.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock was often quiet when we would have long train rides and it had never bothered me but this was one time where I was desperate for him to speak. I tried unsuccessfully to entice him on several occasions with different subjects but eventually he just closed his eyes and leaned against the window. He wasn't asleep but he was giving a very good imitation of being asleep to make me leave him be so I did.

As the cityscapes out the window began to give way to gentle country landscapes I found myself simply watching Sherlock instead of the view. The day had been so confusing and wrought with pain that I could have given in to sleep myself but my head was so full of thoughts I did not even try. As London disappeared far behind us I was struck by how odd it was that Sherlock had fled into the rural part of the country for his self-imposed exile. He had always found peace in the crowded, smoke filled city that so many found cramped and suffocating. I had on several occasions had to force him on holidays just for the sake of his health. I could not believe that he would leave that place for anything. His insistence on hiding out until his passing and letting the world find out of it from the papers seemed so cold. What of his friends and family? The more I thought about that, the more I felt pity for my friend. What friends and family? The only family I had ever heard him speak of was his brother Mycroft and they seemed to have a vague acquaintance at best. And friends? As far as I knew I was his only one. He had made his work his master and while it had been a career worthy of admiration, it had not left him time for much else. I was sure that he did not bemoan this; the work brought him the biggest joys. But now, facing the end, he had to at least be thinking of it.

A flicker of panic rippled through me at the memory that he was going to let me find out without getting a chance to say goodbye. As awful as finding out had been, I could not imagine the shock of reading about Sherlock's death in the papers, knowing that I did not even get to say goodbye.

"I could not stay away… There is no where I'd rather be. There is no one else I'd rather see" Sherlock's words echoed through my head. Try as he could to stay away, he had not been able because of me. Looking back on relationship I tried to find the clues that would have told me how deep were his feelings for me. I felt truly stupid for having not noticed anything at first but the longer I thought about it, the more I felt that there were no clues to have noticed. Sherlock's feelings were his best kept secret.

"Are you going to stare at me the entire trip?" Sherlock asked, eyes still closed, startling me out of my thoughts.

"I am not staring" I tried to insist, feeling my face color. It was no use trying to deceive him; he always knew when I was lying.

Sherlock obviously didn't believe me this time either. Sitting up and looking for all of the world as if he really could have used some actual rest, he gave me a hard stare that made him look so much more like his usual self. "I've made you uncomfortable by telling you my feelings." He said bluntly. There was a trace of regret in his voice but he did well to disguise it.

"No…no, I am glad that you did" I said, surprised how honest my words sounded. "I must confess that I am very surprised though"

"Because I always seemed like such a careless bastard?" Sherlock asked with a grin, surprising me with his blunt vernacular.

"No" I said, not wanting him to think I thought he was unfeeling. I knew he had feelings, I just wasn't privy to them very much unless he was in one of his frustrated, bored induced rages.

"It's okay, John. I have to have humor about this or it would not be manageable" Sherlock said and though he smiled, I could almost sense his pain, raw and just beneath his dignified exterior.

"Do not worry about it" Sherlock continued, waving a hand. "I hardly expect you, especially at this time of my life, to be my companion of dubious morals."

"But I will" I said instantly, and immediately felt my face heat as much as Sherlock's did across from me, "What I mean is….."

I paused, trying to figure out in my own mind what I meant. I did not know exactly what Sherlock's feelings meant. Somehow, the dark and sordid connotations manly love had always had for me did not apply here. Sherlock was not a dirty cad; he was my friend. Though the knowledge of his biggest secret should have altered my opinion of him, it did not. He was the same brilliant, amazing person he had always been and I could not be bothered that somehow he felt actual affection for me. In the deepest parts of me I was selfishly pleased. Giving Sherlock everything he wanted could change me forever but I would not hesitate in giving it to him. He was marked for death; it was not as if we would have time to be charged as sodomites. And by the looks of Sherlock, he was hardly capable of that crime now anyway.

Shocked and embarrassed by my own thoughts, I looked at Sherlock who was patiently waiting for me to speak, a rare thing for him.

"We might as well be open with each other" I started. "Due to our circumstances, I think it would be best if we were just honest with each other. That being said, I will admit that this all has been a lot to take in. I never imagined your being away was because you were so ill; I wish it had not. But I am glad that you did not stay away. You spoke of it like being a weakness; that you were not able to stay off on your own. That's human, Sherlock; no one wants to be alone, especially at a vulnerable time like this. I am so glad that I got to see you again; you cannot imagine how much it would have hurt me to not have had that. And I am glad that told me your feelings. Though I admit that I'm shocked because you hid it so well all of this time…..had you not told me, I would not have guessed. But I want you to know that I am here…..for whatever you need and whatever you want. I'm here and there need not be anything to stand between us."

I could not believe what I was suggesting. To give myself to Sherlock, mind, body and soul was not something light and I did not suggest it lightly. But I knew that I did mean it. I had put myself in some strange and dangerous positions for him before; I would sooner face the dock for caring for him. Just to see him smiling back at me as he did that moment was enough to tell me that I had made the right decision. So wide and open a smile from him was worth everything.

"If I have never said if before, let me say it now; you are brilliant, John" Sherlock said, his words dripping with the praise that I had always sought. I did not feel I needed to say that he had NOT ever said that to me. I had often lavished such praise on him but had rarely gotten it back. It did not matter; I was getting it now.

The heavy emotion was broken in that moment when Sherlock was stricken with another coughing fit. It was hard to watch, seeing him so clearly in agony. I have watched people plagued with all manner of illnesses; I have watched people die painful deaths. But did not prepare me for watching Sherlock's face contort with pain, his lungs rattle as they struggle for air, his blood spilling out onto his already stained handkerchief. I must not have done a good job hiding my feelings since Sherlock looked apologetic as he slumped heavily back on the chair. I could not help but notice the characteristic twitch of his hands, drawn together to stop the movement but failing. I was not surprised that he had been using morphine; as much as I had bemoaned his drug habit when he was healthy, I saw it as expected now.

"You're in need of your drug. Do you not have any more?" I asked him. At this point I wanted to see him do anything to ease his pain.

Sherlock didn't look at me when he answered; despite our saying we would be open and honest with each other it was obvious he was still ashamed of his habit. He knew how much I disapproved. "I know you do not approve" he said simply.

"Sherlock, don't…" I cautioned him sincerely, "it's one thing to use drugs as mental stimulation. It is quite clearly another to ease obvious pain. Do you need some?"

Sherlock's face contorted, as if conflicted; he was both in pain and in emotional turmoil. Not unusual considering, but still it bothered me. "I have some. I am…saving it" he said, not meeting my eyes. I did not care for that reluctance to meet my eyes; it's always how I knew he was being deceptive.

"Saving it? Whatever for?" I asked in confusion. Sherlock was a man of addictive habits; he'd always been fairly loose in his opinion of drug use. He'd never tried to limit himself before so why was he now when he had a legitimate health reason for using it?

"For something important" Sherlock said mystically before he forced a smile. A very artificial smile, I might add.

"So tell me, John. What has been happening to you since I left? There's been enough talk about what has happened to me." He said, completely changing the subject. Though we had agreed to be open, I could tell that subject was closed for now. At least, I tried to tell myself, he wanted to talk.

And if Sherlock wanted to talk about the mundane details of my life without him, how could I refuse, no matter how troubled I was?

….

The weather was even more bitter and bleak when we arrived on the coast than it had been in London. It was a shame; the costal scene with its quaint little cottages would have been beautiful in July but was depressing in January. The wind was biting cold, slicing through any multitude of clothing layers, with the occasional spurt of snow flurries.

The cottage that Sherlock had been staying at for the past several months had his mark of being definitely lived in. Stacks of books were piled in every corner and on every table, newspapers and old letters strung across the floor as if flung there carelessly but I knew him long enough that I knew it was organized to his specific needs. I marveled, in disbelief, when Sherlock told me that he had spent his time working on old cold cases for Lestrade at the Yard and sending his findings in by mail. It seemed so inappropriate for his health but not the least bit surprising to his personality.

But the room also had the mark of an uncared for sick person. Wastepaper baskets were overflowing with heaps of rubbish, spilling onto the floor. Plates and cups were stacked up on the furniture and floors, some so obviously crusted over with food they must have been idle for weeks. I did not even want to count how many blood stained handkerchiefs were lying around; the hypodermic needle sat mockingly brazen on an armchair by the fire.

It was obvious that Sherlock had not had a maid in in quite some time though why, I did not ask. Sherlock had always taken any comments I'd given him about the appearance of our rooms poorly so I did not comment on the disastrous state of his rooms now. Though it did cause me pain; someone should have been caring for him. I should have been caring for him.

"I know what you're thinking; it's a disastrous mess in here" Sherlock said, noting my thoughts. "I apologize in advance for the state of the bedroom; it's even worse. And there's only one but that should be fine seeing as I hardly sleep."

"You should be getting rest, Sherlock" I admonished him. I took the bags to the bedroom and dropped them on the only part of the floor next to the rumpled bed that was not covered in dirty linens. I did want my mind to linger for too long on the fact that we had never shared rooms in all of our years that only had one bedroom.

"I have never wasted undue time of my life sleeping and I don't plan on starting now" Sherlock said with a wave of his hand.

I wanted, as a physician to advise him against that. But as a friend I was not going to argue with him. His desire to run himself into the ground was no doubt expediting his nearing end but that was also something I was not going to say; I could barely think it.

When I came back into the sitting room, I found Sherlock clearing off the table by throwing piles of rubbish in the floor. He set out two wine glasses on the table and began to fill them with the finest port before saying much too brightly, "John, come have a drink with me."

I wasn't sure I could handle it. I could feel the impending doom of some source I couldn't place yet gathering and I was already feeling so spent. "Since when have we started drinking in the middle of the day?" I asked, sitting down across from him but not touching the glass.

Sherlock waved a hand, looking too carefree. His smile was so wide it looked slightly manic and that worried me. He looked like a man about to lose his touch on reality as I had seen so many do under such stress. "Ah, habits, John. There's always time to change them" he said.

I felt as still as a statue, frozen with concern as I watched him grab a bottle of laudanum and dispense enough drops into his mouth as to compete with De Quincy. Swallowing back the mixture as if it were sugar water, he looked at me with a smile but his hands were shaking so that I could not take my eyes off them.

"What's the matter, Holmes? Tell me now" I said in a hard voice. I did not know what he was driving at but this day had been hard enough without his trying to soften the blow of whatever else he was going to tell me. There was so softening anything now.

"Ah, formality, John. I thought we were done with it" Sherlock tried to tease me but I did not smile even for a moment.

"And I thought we were going to be straight with each other. Whatever you're going to tell me, just tell me" I said, leaning forward and meeting his eyes.

Sherlock's smile faded from his face, his eyes shifting away quickly. His fingers touched the laudanum bottle idly but his eyes were set longingly on the syringe, obviously wishing for the stronger drug.

"John, I am in constant pain" Sherlock said, "No doubt some of my more destructive habits have caused my illness to speed up and worsen. The only thing that has made it the least but tolerable is the drug but the end is now here, painful in the extreme except with dangerous levels of drug. I would have been long gone from this world already if it weren't for you. I could not die alone; it was too terrifying. I needed your support and strength."

Something caused me to down my drink in one long gulp; my vision was beginning to blur in panic. "You speak as if you know the date of it." I said in a shaky voice. I could gather where this subject was going and it was too horrible to fathom.

Sherlock paused for a long moment. "I suppose that I do" he said quietly.

"Do not speak such nonsense, Holmes" I said, falling into the formal use of his name out of anger. "Only the divine know such things and though I've spoken to you as if you were divine before you aren't and cannot choose the moment of your death."

Sherlock could sense the storm of my anger and was obviously afraid of confronting it. He looked as meek as I had ever seen him before. "I am in terrible pain. I do not plan on waiting for the moment to come on its own. I want to go in my own way; calmly asleep."

I felt my anger burning inside of my like a blazing furnace. "You can't possibly be asking me to assist you in committing suicide." I said, glaring at him, my hands turning into fists. I wanted to hit him but I instead I settled on punching the table. My knuckles cracked and were no doubt going to bruise but I did not care. I was consumed with anger.

"I'm not going to blow my head off with a gun or cut my wrists; it's not suicide" Sherlock tried to argue hotly, "A lethal dose of morphine should be a calm way to go. Euthanasia is the only solution in such cases as this."

"What the devil is the difference between calling it suicide or euthanasia?" I said, "It all comes down to you planning on ending your life. I am a doctor; I will care for you in your illness but I will not be a party to you killing yourself."

Sherlock paled. "But I need you. I want you here. If I could have done it without you I already would have" he said bluntly.

I had never before felt that Sherlock Holmes was less human and more machine. I felt completely sick at heart. In a burst of emotion I pushed away from the table and stood up. "This is why you brought me here?" I thundered, "You dragged me out here to help you end your already short life in a shorter amount of time? Only because you wanted help? You want me to stick the needle into your vein too?! You've never had trouble doing that before! Why the hell would you now? I…..I will not be part of this"

I had never spoken to Sherlock like that before but then again I was sure I had never felt angrier at him. Not waiting for a curt reply or argument, I fled from the cottage and into the cold air outside.

I've always considered myself to be very level headed but in that moment I had lost my head. I ran from the cottage as fast as I could, often slipping and sliding in the dips in the sand. The wind was ripping through me, having taken no overcoat in my haste but I burned with anger so much that I barely felt it. There was no one around and no obstacle until I reached the aging wood of the pier. Having completely lost my senses I kicked the pier in rage until I had spent all of my fury and collapsed on my knees in the sand. I stared at the obscure waves, brushing up less than inch from me, black and dismal in color as I felt in spirit.

Was it not already enough to have found out in a day that Sherlock was dying but now I had to face the grim reality he wanted to end his life sooner? What was worse was he considered me to be the sort of man who would assist him. Was this the whole reason he called me here? Was all of this a plan? I thought about how he'd acted earlier, so distraught over the matter of telling me he had deep feelings for me. He seemed to think that would keep me from coming here. Apparently, he considered me to be the sort of man who is more intolerant of certain kinds of affection than the idea of assisted suicide. At this point, I doubted he felt the way he had said; maybe it had been a rouse to lure my sympathy for him. He'd played my feelings in a similar matter for years. I felt completely like a fool.

It was half way to night and snowing steadily by the time that Sherlock managed to catch up with me. My anger burned at him but even so I felt guilt when I heard the wheezing sound of his breath coming in and out after having walked so far. "John, what are you doing out here?" he asked, taking a deep breath after each word and pressing a hand to his mouth as if staving off the need to vomit.

I ignored him, staring at his reflection in the water instead of looking at him.

"Why are you so angry at me? I already told you I had a serious illness. Why is it so surprising I want to end my suffering?" Sherlock asked.

"Why? Why!?" I repeated, standing up and staring at him as straight as our height difference would allow. "I came here to care for you, Sherlock. I am a doctor, that's what I do. I don't purposely end lives! And not your life especially! You are my dearest friend; I want as much time with you as possible."

"And I don't! Didn't you consider what I want?" Sherlock said, passion coloring his cheeks. "I am in agony every minute of every day. I'm suffering and I want to end my life as gracefully as possible, slipping away peacefully instead of gasping on my own blood!"

"Sherlock…" all I could manage was to say his name, closing my eyes for a moment against the pain, snowflakes burning my face. I couldn't bear it now that he was making sense. Somehow, he was tearing away my well placed morals in favor of his needs. He always had, certainly, but this was much worse. He wasn't implying I help him break and enter; the result of this plan would be me holding his corpse.

"How can you ask me to do this?" I asked, my voice cracking as it took in the sharp sting of the cold air and I willed myself not to become too emotional. I refused to shed tears here and now, in front of Sherlock.

"Because you are the best, John" Sherlock said, his eyes showing the depth of his pain as they bored into mine. "For all of our years you have always done what I asked with little to no argument. You have trusted me to a fault and always done what I needed. Now, this is what I need. I'm doing it one way or another but I hope your friendship for me will not allow you to let me die alone. "

I felt as if I was breaking inside. The effort required to hold in my emotion was causing me unbearable pain. How could I do this? It would break my character in ways in which it would never recover; but it was the only thing doing. I would not betray Holmes in the last hour any more that I had from our very first. I would have followed him to the ends of the earth, would have sacrificed my life if need be for him…my love for him was far too great to deny him this, no matter how painful it was.

I did not look at Sherlock as I voiced the question that was most pressing to me at the moment. "Was this all your design?" I could not deny the sorrow and self-pity in my own voice. "Was all of that about having a deep affection for me a ruse to get me to do this? Because if it was, it was unnecessary and cruel."

I wanted him to deny it; I wanted to hear him say it wasn't true. Why it was so important to me, I did not want to examine; if I had seen my own feelings in someone else I would not have hesitated to chastise them.

Whatever it was that I expected, it wasn't what Sherlock did. My eyes were still on the sand and snowflakes when I felt an arm wrap around my back. His hand was on the small of my back and he used the hold to pull me towards him. When my eyes looked up to face him, Sherlock's other hand came to my cheek, holding my face with endearing tenderness. My breath caught somewhere in my chest and my heart seemed to freeze, which might have attributed to the dizzy sensation in my head. Sherlock's eyes looked at me with a care, affection and a sorrow that even he, the great actor and chameleon, could not fake. For several moments, we neither said nor did anything. I was hyperaware of the press of Sherlock's fingers against my back, burning even through the many layers of my clothes and his smooth, long musician's fingers on my cheek. No one had ever touched me with such tender motions and I felt aware that anything could happen in that moment. My breath did not come for several moments and when it did, it came out in frozen puffs, mingling in the air with Sherlock's, as close as it was. With burning cheeks and a warming sense of shame, a tremble of excitement ran through me as I could suddenly imagine myself behind closed curtains in perfumed rooms. I could imagine it with Holmes and no one else.

"If you can imagine me to be that cruel I must truly be a monster in your eyes" Sherlock said, his voice quaking with emotion. "No, Watson, my love is not a fabrication."

Sherlock made to move away but I caught him by the wrist. Surprise, such a rare thing, was obvious on Sherlock's face as I grabbed his wrist and pulled his hand back to my face with trembling fingers. His touch back where it should be, where I wanted it to be despite that I shouldn't have, Sherlock's thumb gently scrapped across my cheek, brushing over my lips for a fraction of a second.

"I'm sorry" I said immediately. "I'm sorry I doubted you."

Sherlock closed his eyes as fresh pain washed over his face. "I suppose I have not always been trustworthy" he admitted. "I have ill-used you in the past; it's no surprise you might not believe me."

Another meaningful silence passed between us. The cutting wind and the furious snow made me want to seek shelter but I found out I could not move. I did not know what exactly was going to happen but I found myself terrifyingly in for whatever it did mean.

"I said before that I was all open to you and I mean it still" I said, the pain of it nearly suffocating me. "I will stay with you until the end….whenever you chose that to be."

Sherlock was, rarely, speechless. Wrapping his arms around me, he pulled me into an embrace, our first ever. I hugged him back tight as I could, glad I could hide my face as it was buried in Sherlock's chest. His tall form sheltered me from the cold of the winter and I focused solely on the sound of his beating, living heart and trying to ignore the rattle of his breaths straining in his chest and the fact that they were numbered. When I heard the sound of one strangled sob break from Sherlock's throat I pretended to ignore that too.


	3. Chapter 3

The rest of the evening passed normally enough; so normal, in fact, that one could almost forget that Sherlock was so ill. What I could not forget was the scene on the beach; being so near to Sherlock and feeling such emotions had rattled me. I had never come close to such feelings before and I did not know what to make of it. However, there had been such a monumental amount of other emotions to process that when Sherlock suggested we go out to dinner and then to the theater, I was happy to oblige. We did not speak about Sherlock's illness or the feelings expressed surrounding it and for several perfect hours it was as if we were back in our clubs in London.

But towards the end of the evening Sherlock's condition became once more apparent. Toward the end of the symphony Sherlock began to cough into his handkerchief; when he couldn't stop, he excused himself, red faced and flushed, out of the theater. I tried to sit back and wait back for him to return but when several songs passed without him, I left to find him.

When I found Sherlock, he was sitting on the bench in front of the theater, coughing and gasping. He looked around to make sure that no one was watching him before ungracefully spitting into the street and dotting the snow in front of him with red. When he turned around and saw me standing there, he flushed with embarrassment. Sherlock's skin was almost grey in pallor, sweat on his brow despite the winter air; he looked absolutely dreadful. My stomach twisted in a way that made me feel ill but at Sherlock's stricken expression, I was determined to make light of the situation.

"Come on…..let's go get some rest. "I said simply, gesturing for him to follow me back to the seaside cabin, which he did willingly, though without words.

By the time that we got back to the cabin, Sherlock's condition was even worse than it had been outside of the theater. He was paler and his eyes were surrounded by dark circles; he looked like he could barely stand. Throwing off his coat, he lowered himself into a warn armchair by the fire and looked up at me.

"Feel free to take the bedroom" Sherlock said, gesturing toward the cabin's sole bedroom.

"You must be joking" I said, looking at his gaunt, weary face. "You are exhausted; you take the bed. I'm an army man; I can sleep anywhere." I had slept in some strange places and though my aging form was making that less possible, I would glad sleep on the table if it meant Sherlock could have some much needed rest."

"You are my guest; I insist" Sherlock said, his voice strong with what I knew even to be forced hospitality.

I sighed, feeling the weariness of the day sink into my bones like heavy metal. "Sherlock, just go to bed" I said, my words heavy and tired.

Sherlock looked into the fire, his face in the shadows for several moments before he looked up at me. "Why don't we share? There is plenty of room for the two of us." He said. There was something of a lost look in his eyes. I must have paused too long because he said hastily. "I will promise, of course, to be a gentleman."

That actually gave me a laugh; the idea that Sherlock could be anything but a gentleman was laughable. Unwarranted, I had so many questions about his supposed unsavory behavior but I would never have had the nerve to voice them. "I would expect nothing less from you" I told him, smiling warmly. "You have never brought me any harm."

Holmes and I had shared rooms many times before. We'd even shared a bed on one occasion, though an ill-fated one; a case in one of the deepest hovels and robbed of our normal provisions found us having to share a room of the most dubious nature, with one battered, infested mattress on the coldest night of the year. Had we not shared the blankets I am sure we would have frozen to our deaths.

The cold of the weather was like that night but everything else had changed. Sherlock's room was cozy with a warm fire to break the chill of the ocean wind and despite the obvious mess of the room, like the rest of the cabin left to neglect, it was still comfortable. Grabbing my suitcase, I changed into my nightgown and dressing gown in the other room before returning to the bedroom.

Sherlock was already dressed and under the covers when I returned. His eyes were closed when I entered but he opened them upon hearing my step, trying to act like he had energy that I knew he didn't have. As I took off my dressing gown to get into bed, Sherlock moved as far over to the other side as he as could; he thought he was making me uncomfortable. As strange as the situation was, I felt oddly composed and at ease.

"If you move over to that side any more, you are libel to fall off the bed" I told him in jest, trying to lighten the mood. Sherlock didn't say anything but he grew still and relaxed. "Thank you, John" he said, his voice quiet. "I cannot tell you how happy I am that you have agreed to stay with me despite the horrible way I've behaved."

Sherlock's eyes were closed; I was overly aware of the feel of his breath warm against my face alerting me to our proximity. Despite the lines on his face and the weathered appearance his illness had given his skin, he appeared too young at the moment to be allowed to be dying. "You haven't behaved horrible" I told him truthfully, "I would suffer much more abuse if it was coming from you."

Sherlock's eyes opened and observed me for several minutes. I felt strange, being watched like that; I did not know what he was thinking. I had meant the remark to be a good thing but I could not see if it was in his eyes. "What does Mary think you are doing?" he finally asked.

I felt an unwanted, twisting sensation in my stomach. "I do not want to discuss Mary" I said simply; my tone was harsher than I had meant it to be. I did not want Sherlock to see, though no doubt he did, guilt written on my face. I told Mary I was on a case with Sherlock; while she had been sympathetic in our adventures together in the beginning of our marriage, they were now a source of argument between us. If I had told Mary the truth about Sherlock's illness and where I was going, she would have been more understanding of my absence. But for some reason I had felt the need to lie; I was, for some reason I didn't understand, fiercely protective of these last days with Sherlock and did not want anyone to know about it. It didn't make sense; I didn't have anything to hide. But almost as soon as this thought came to my mind, I recalled the thoughts I had entertained on the beach and I felt my guilt increase. Even the memory of it could make me feel how Sherlock's fingers felt against my face and how his embrace has warmed me. I shouldn't have wanted to recall it but I did.

"I'm sorry if the question was impertinent" Sherlock said when I failed to say any of this; I felt like he could sense it all the same. "I know that your assistance to me in my cases has caused trouble with your wife."

"That is the least of our issues" I told Sherlock, with honesty, "It seems that the quirks we found endearing before our marriage, including my desire for dangerous adventures with you, are now most annoying. Things have not been going well for a long time; it is not your fault."

"I'm sorry; I really thought you two were a good match for each other" Sherlock said. His voice was hopeful; he wanted things to work out between us. But there was a note of sadness behind it and it didn't take deductive abilities to see why. Now knowing the feelings that Sherlock had harbored for me I could only guess how he really felt about the state of my relationship with Mary.

"It is late; let us just get some rest" I said, not wanting to discuss it anymore. I closed my eyes, ready to seek sleep and stop thinking about such things. I was glad when Sherlock fell silent and did not say anything more, the silence only broken by his wet coughs occasionally in the night.

….

We spent an entire week at the cabin without discussing Sherlock's future assisted suicide. He said no more of it after that first day and I surely was not about to bring it up. I had no idea how long he planned for us to stay here but I was in no rush to go home; I knew that going home would mean that he surely was gone from this world and that was something I simply could not think about. Even when he would cough and wheeze, often to the point of looking about ready to collapse, I could talk myself into ignoring that plain fact he was getting worse and worse each day. I needed Sherlock to be alive and I was somehow able to hide the truth in my subconscious.

For most of the time, the ruse was easy to accept. Sherlock tried to act as normally as possible, as if we were just on holiday at the seaside and despite the fact that it was the dead of winter, it was easy to believe. We had our meals at the best restaurants, walked on the beach despite the chill and discussed past cases. Sherlock was animated and lively in his discussions and laughed easier in that week than I had ever seen him do in our acquaintance. For someone who had spent so long on his own, shunning the entire world, he was making up for it. And he was doing it all with me by his side….Our seaside cabin became to me like an oasis from the world. It was our own special place; a secret I knew I'd never share with anyone.

Every night we shared the same bed, the same as we had the first night there. Whatever reticent I had had about this in the beginning was long gone and I admit I found devilish pleasure in going to sleep at night. Sherlock would fall asleep almost instantly, his illness having worn him out, and I would lie beside him and watch him sleep in the flickering lamp light. True to Sherlock's word, he was a complete gentleman and never even tried to touch me. I would, with a quickly beating heart, reach under the covers and close my fingers around his after he had gone to sleep. I did not understand fully why I did this; I only knew that my pulse would thump inside my ears and my fingers felt unduly hot against his smooth, long ones. Sherlock never mentioned anything about this the following day but I'm sure that he knew it; occasionally I'd wake up in the night and he'd be in a different position than the one he was in when I went to sleep but our fingers would still be intertwined.

Everything was on the edges; everything was in the shadows and unacknowledged until one night it all came to a head. We'd had dinner in a seedy little pub, the type of place that normally we would not go but it had been Sherlock's idea and I would not deter him. After several drinks and hearing Sherlock begin to break out in song, I convinced him to go, to the disappointment of several patrons. But that wasn't before Sherlock had grabbed a bottle of wine for the journey back to the cabin.

I have never made a habit of excessive drinking. I think as a physician and having seen so many poor souls in the throes of terrible delirium tremens to want to have nothing to do with becoming anything like the wrenches wasted on alcohol. But that night I was heavily intoxicated; I had thrown caution to the wind and indulged as much as Sherlock had. With each drink, he'd become happier and more at ease; my own blissful sense of intoxication made me feel warm and happy, as if nothing bad could happen. It was just the sort of feeling I needed to keep my worries in the back of my mind where they belonged.

The walk back to our cabin was such a short one that we did not feel a need, even in the cold night air, to try to fetch a ride. But the short walk seemed to take quite longer that night; we had our arms around each other's shoulders for support but we still swayed heavily. Sherlock continued his personal concert of patriotic songs and we would dissolve into heavy laughter when he would forget the words, which was often. Anyone hearing us would have thought us two silly schoolboys instead of gentlemen.

The night had a chill in the air but it was not as bitter as it had been the past few days. The day had been sunny and brilliant, melting all the snow of previous days. The sky was such a heavy black that though there were stars dazzling up there, you could barely see them; only the full moon gave us any real light, reflecting off the waves of the active ocean. When we lost our balance and fell onto the sand, we were sufficiently warm from drink that we didn't feel the need to get up immediately. We sat in the sand, passing the wine bottle back and forth, caring nothing about manners, until we finished it, and drunkenly appreciating the ocean before us.

Sherlock had long given up his song and was quietly contemplating the scene just as I was. I did not find anything alarming about this until I began to hear the sound of broken sobs coming from him. To my horror, when I turned toward Sherlock, his hand was covering his mouth as great, wracking sobs grew louder and more violent from him. In a few short moments, he was bitterly weeping.

"Sherlock, whatever is this about?" I burst out, indelicately, I admit. I was so surprised to find him in such a state. I have known many people to dissolve into a state of drunken weeping after too many drinks but never had Holmes been this way. True, he rarely drank to this excess but still, he could hold his liquor better than this.

Sherlock could not answer me for several minutes, his weeping was so heavy. In my heavy, drunken stupor I wanted to help him, wanted to reach out to comfort him. When I tried to put an arm heavily around him, swaying unsteadily, he shrugged away from me and I was sufficiently hurt that I didn't try it again.

"This is not fair! I do not want to die…."

I had never heard Sherlock speak like this. His words broke from his throat, harsh and anguished, hardly distinguishable between sobs and wracking coughs. Of course, I should have been able to predict this was what was wrong; under the influence of alcohol, Sherlock had become more aware of his mortality and more open to express feelings about it that he couldn't do otherwise. It was callous and ignorant of me to have not seen it coming.

"Why is this happening to me?" Sherlock continued, crying into his hands. "Are my sins so great that I am being punished? Why have I been forsaken like this? This illness is a curse from God."

It was most unsettling to hear Sherlock speak this way; I could instantly feel myself sobering up because of it. It was not only distressing to hear Sherlock wailing in self-pity but his mention of sins was uncharacteristic as well. If anything, he was a firm agnostic; he never spoke of religion. But then again, near death made believers of many men…..

"It is not a curse; you're a good man, Sherlock" I told him earnestly, "You're a man of science; you know why this is happening. As much as I wish it wasn't, it isn't a curse."

It was cruel really, the truth of it; it wasn't a curse but merely an illness. Something small and foreign in the body that should not have been there; not a divine punishment. I could not believe with all of the good that Sherlock had done in his work that any personal sins could condemn him to such suffering.

I wished my words to be a comfort to Sherlock but they were, if anything, cause for more distress. He had seemed to not want physical comfort so I refrained from touching him and waited for him to say something through his heavy sobs

"If only you knew, John, you would not say that. If only you knew all of the horrible things I have done…." Sherlock said in a pitiful wailing voice. "You would show me no pity if you knew some of the things that I've done."

I did not know what Sherlock meant by those distressing words and I did not want to know. If it was in reference to his personal life, what some would call 'ungodly passions' then it was nothing I was sure that I could not have handled. But somehow I found his distress to be too great for it to be just that. Over the years I had heard many people speculate that Sherlock surely must be a criminal to be so inept at finding the source of crime. I never believed it and I did not want to start now.

"You must not talk this way" I told Sherlock, "As I told you already, there is nothing that you could have done that would alter how I feel about you."

Even this did not seem to console him in the least. He was verging on hysteria and it was doing nothing to stop his retched coughing fits. "I should have been found guilty at the Old Bailey long ago!" Sherlock cried, "That's why this is happening to me…..I've been living on borrowed time when I should have hung long ago!"

That at least answered my question whether or not it was some crime Sherlock felt guilt over. Sherlock, having missed a calling in theater, did have a flair for the dramatic. So, I could not tell whether or not this confession was as bad as it sounded or whether his illness and drunkenness had blown it out of its proper proportions. Maybe I should have allowed him to confess; maybe that would have brought him some comfort. But facing the idea of conspiring to help him die I could not also harbor the secret he was a murderer or something worse.

"You must get a hold of yourself, Sherlock. Stop talking like this" I said, in as strong a voice as possible. Grabbing Sherlock by the arm, I helped him up into a standing position. His legs were shaking and he was still weeping but somehow we managed to make it back to our cabin.

I led Sherlock back to the bedroom and sat him on the bed before making a fire to break the fridge dark and cold of the room. Sherlock was still crying though a violent coughing fit stopped him for quite some time. By the time that I had the fire going, Sherlock's face was red and distressed, blood spotting his shirt where he had his sleeve over his mouth; when he started gagging, I darted quickly for the chamber pot and was lucky enough to give it to him in time.

I have been in enough sickrooms that very little fazes me; I do not have the luxury of being embarrassed. But it's different when the patient is not a stranger but your dearest friend. Seeing Sherlock being violently sick and trying desperately to catch his breath did not embarrass me; seeing his look of pure shame did. He did not need to be embarrassed; I would have attended any medical need he had. But I knew he would never be comfortable showing any weakness around me.

Finally, Sherlock's stomach eased and he was finally able to gather a shaking breath. He wiped his mouth with a soiled handkerchief and looked up at me from where I stood next to the bed. His face was red as his blood shot eyes, covered in sweat and tears he hadn't bothered to wipe away. He was the picture of human misery.

"I'm sorry; I'm being very…undignified" Sherlock said, a wave of soberness washing over him.

Sherlock's eyes were still watery; he was obviously on the edge of weeping again. I went to the basin on the table and wet a towel and came back to him. I wiped his eyes with the towel and tried to force a smile onto my face.

"There is no one here but me. Feel free to be as undignified as you need to be" I told him, continuing to wipe his red, fevered face with the cool towel.

He bravely managed a smile for a moment before his eyes closed, spilling moisture again. I was glad that at least my words had given him freedom to express his sorrow. I was startled when he grabbed my face between his hands and brought my face to his, my forehead resting against his. I was startled at the suddenness of the action but the touch warmed me instantly. It was just as it had been on the beach; I was aware of every brush of warmth of him on me, my heart beating too fast, a rush of need like I never knew and could never fulfil coursing through me. I did not know a simple touch could feel like this.

His face was so close to mine I could feel his tears against my cheek. The press of alcohol in the back of my mind urged me to make ill timed, thoughtless decisions but I forced myself to be as still as the silence in the room. Sherlock's hands were around my wrists and the towel in my hands fell to the floor; Sherlock's breath smelled so strongly of wine that it mostly covered up the smell of blood and vomit I feared would be there. I knew even in that moment that that smell and that feel would be so strong in my memory I would never forget it.

"I am afraid….." Sherlock's words were a whisper, a tremble of fear in them making me shiver.

"I am too….." I shouldn't have said it but there was no making Sherlock less afraid by pretending that I wasn't. I had never been as afraid of anything as I was in that moment. I had faced death, on more than one occasion during the war and while there is no fear like facing your own death, I was afraid of Sherlock's more. I couldn't understand then how I could fear his death more than my own; I do now.

My eyes were closed but I could feel a cold finger rubbing against my cheek; I could feel it like it was down into my toes. "I don't want to leave you" he said. I think even then he knew the severity of the moment; he knew how much time was left.

There were so many things in those small words; so many things unsaid but still understood. My insides shattered; I wanted to weep so much for all that was never going to be but I forced it away with every grain of my self-control.

"I don't want to leave you either." I put as much meaning behind the words as he had and I was sure that he understood.

I didn't sleep for one moment that night; it felt like the end of the world was coming. Days ago the new century had started and everyone thought that it meant a new, better world; for me it meant the end to the world that mattered. Time might go on just as it always had for millennium but I would not.

We didn't say anything else; there was nothing that could be said after that. Sherlock's tears had finally stopped but that didn't stop the pure look of fear that was obvious in his eyes, even in the waning firelight. Slowly, as quick as I could possibly make my body act, I raised my fingers to his cheeks and wiped away what was left of the tears. My fingers felt clumsy and rough compared to the smooth unbrokenness of his skin but he still shivered when I touched him.

I ached so much; for him, for life, for meaning and fairness in life that was never going to be there. I was sure that Sherlock did too; I knew that as much as I was hurting, it could not have been as much as Sherlock's pain. Even so, I selfishly wished I was in his place; I could have suffered the pain of knowing I was dying better than thinking of living without him. Sherlock had come into my life almost as if by divine intervention. I'd had no family, no close friends, and no purpose in civilian life and was too ruined for war anymore. I was ill, I was suffering and I was lonelier than I had ever been. Sherlock had so altered my life and been there so long I did not know what would happen without him. I did not even know what I was anymore without him.

I lay back against the bedpost, too weary to rise and change my clothes. Almost instantly, I felt Sherlock lay against me. All of our touches up until this point had been small and tentative; things that could be explained away later if that was what we wanted to do. But this was not small, shy or unexplainable; it was full of need and desperation and I was not embarrassed by it in the least. Sherlock's head lay against my chest, putting his arms around me like an overgrown child. We still never said anything more but I instantly put an arm around him and I was not the first person to let go. The need inside of me did not go away; if anything, it increased. But odd as that was, it somehow still made it better.


	4. Chapter 4

That night was one of the worst nights of my life. The only thing that saved it from being the ultimate worst in my life was the nights that followed it, each more bleak than the next. That night was the beginning of the end, a downward, dark spiral into suffering and loneliness like even I didn't expect when Sherlock told me he was leaving.

Sherlock started off that night sick and it only got worse as they hours drug on. He couldn't stop vomiting and though I knew he needed water, he couldn't keep it in his stomach for more than a few seconds before it came back up. He burned with fever and shook with the chill of it and nothing seemed to help. But the worst was the coughing; he coughed until he had no energy hardly left to cough but it still came. Blood was everywhere; I tried to ignore just how much blood there was. Several times, I was sure that he would not be able to catch his breath; I held my own until he finally managed to pull a little air into his lungs.

Even so, in my ignorance, I did not see it coming. As the sun was coming up over the ocean horizon and spilling into the cabin's many windows, Sherlock was lying on his back on the bed, having just caught his breath for the hundredth time and I was trying to clear up some of the mess of the chamber pots and soiled rags when it happened; when my world came to an end.

"John, its time"

My back was to him; I froze and stared into the slowly dying fire. I could feel my heart beating in my ears but not in my chest; everything seemed to be getting very small and close, as if the whole world was shrinking. I could hear the waves outside, very active today, crashing against the shore distantly but it couldn't tune out the haunting sound of the clock in the hallway ticking away precious time. No….I wasn't ready. It could not be time yet.

I turned toward Sherlock, dropping everything in my hands; they were trembling too much anyway. "No…..don't say that" I said in a shaking voice. I hated myself for it; I wanted to be strong for him.

I couldn't read any emotion on Sherlock's face; that scared me even more. "We discussed this" he said, "I do not want to spend another night like that. I'm suffering too much; I'm ready to go"

I wanted to argue but I could tell by Sherlock's face that he was determined. The drunken, painfully honest Sherlock of last night was gone; strong Sherlock was back. There would be nothing I could say that could convince him otherwise. The words, 'I'm ready to go' haunted me because I knew that he meant it. I cannot even begin to describe how filled with fear I was at the realization that he was going to die and not on an unknown day but today.

I must have remained stoically silent for too long; Sherlock had gotten off the bed and walked over to me. He reached out and held my hands; the feeling of his hands in my own steadied me a bit, enough that at least I could look into his eyes. He actually had genuine courage there; he was afraid but resigned to what he was doing. He was being strong for me and that gave me enough motivation to pretend to have strength I did not.

"I need you with me for this." Sherlock said earnestly, looking into my eyes with emotion that shook me to my very core. "You will be the last person I speak to, the last person I see; you'll be the last person I touch and the last thing I feel…..And I am happy about that."

Happy? How could he be happy about anything at a time like this? Dark moroseness flooded through my body like a disease, threatening to overwhelm me but with the honest love that was in Sherlock's eyes and words, I found the courage to push it back at least for a time.

"It will be my greatest honor" I said in a quiet, honest voice.

…..

Sherlock was acting so normal that it made my unease worse. He was calm and composed while I felt on the verge of pure panic. I had sat down by the fire, trying to soak up some kind of warmth; it was one of the coldest days I'd ever felt and my frigid heart struggling inside me did not make it better. The small case, with the small bottle and hypodermic, that had been an irritation to me from the day I knew Holmes sat inches from me, taunting me. The drug I had always warned Sherlock about, fearing it would kill him, was now actually going to be the means of taking his life. Every bit of my morals and scruples were fighting me to say no, to refuse to do this; I had to harden something inside of myself, break something I wouldn't get back, to do this. It wasn't right but for Sherlock I was making it right. I threw back several shots of brandy from the nearby decanter to steady my nerves and loathed the taste of it even as it warmed my insides; I'd never be able to drink brandy again after that day. Its taste, which had once seemed like an ambrosial comfort, was a bitter poisonous reminder of that day.

It was not until Sherlock sat down in front of me that I could see that he was not as calm as I had believed he was. Pure fear was written on every feature of his face like I had never seen. His cool eyes were red and wide, as if he already was staring into some realm that was not meant to be seen by his living, mortal eyes. His skin, already drained of what little color it had ever had due to his illness, looked almost corpse like in its greyness. His hands were clasped as if to stop the obvious shaking that was going through them but nothing could conceal it. Sherlock Holmes, the man who had courted death on an almost weekly basis, the man who could stare down the barrel of a gun with cool composure, was terrified. He'd always lived as if death did not frighten him, as if going out of this world in a blaze of dangerous glory would delight him, but now that death was here, feeling as if it was a distinct person in the room, he was frightened just as anyone would be. Sherlock Holmes was human and I was the only one who had ever really seen it.

I wanted to speak; I wanted to say something comforting but the words flew out of my head like they were the wind. There was nothing comforting to say as Sherlock stared at the hypodermic and seemed to fade away before my eyes, already looking like he belonged to the spirit world.

Sherlock reached across to the table and picked up the needle with a shaky hand, its point hauntingly glinting in the glow of the fire. At that moment I lost my head and abruptly blurted out, "You do not have to this" It was part of my weakness showing itself, just as much as my body's own tremors were giving me away. To my immense surprise, when Sherlock's eyes met mine, he was smiling despite his terrified continence.

"I have always prided myself on being the master of my own fate" Sherlock said, "And while I did not choose to be cursed with this illness, I can choose when to end it. I still have that little bit of power left."

It was a blasphemous statement to most but to me it simply sounded familiar. For a moment, Sherlock's humor and mild arrogance shone through and we could have been back on Baker Street, discussing a case and not his close passing. Sherlock had made up his mind as to what he was going to do and I was not going to try to dissuade him again.

"Then I will stand beside you" I told him, as bravely as I could muster. I was glad that it made Sherlock smile.

"Always my faithful friend" Sherlock said, his cheeks gaining a small bit of color as he seemed to be pleased with my behavior over the years. It gave me no end of pleasure that I seemed to have enriched his life as much as he had mine.

Sherlock did not want to return to the sick room and I did not blame him. But as he wanted to be comfortable in those last moments I made him a makeshift nest of bed by the fire. I gathered up all of the bedding and quilts I could find and lay them by the fire, the only place that was not bone chillingly cold in the cabin. Sherlock lay down on top of them and, in a show of how resigned he was to his fate, actually allowed me to tuck the bedding in warmly around him. It gave me the heart wrenching sensation of putting him into a shroud for several moments until Sherlock put his hand on top of mine against the blanket and smiled at me, his eyes closed in contentment.

"It's a shame that you never had children, John since you obviously have a parent's touch. I feel just like a little babe tucked into a cot again" Sherlock said warmly as he put my hand against his face as if he were a child cuddling a toy.

My heart was a contrasting mass of sympathy and crushing despair as I smiled back at him. "I have always felt you needed care; you simply bring that out in me" I admitted, lying down next to him without breaking my touch upon his cheek. And it was true; grown man though Sherlock had always been his reckless lifestyle and careless attention to his own body had always made me feel I needed to care for him.

I do not know how long we lay like that, my hand pressed to his cheek, my eyes looking at his face and trying to memorize it but neither one of us was in any hurry to rush it. After a spell of dreadful coughing that Sherlock could barely gain his breath again after, I knew it was imminent. I was using a handkerchief to wipe away the bloody crimson on his chapped lips when he said in a shaking, rattling voice, "Hand me the needle, John."

I wanted to protest so badly I had to bite my lip to keep from saying anything. It was the last thing I wanted and yet I had made a promise to Sherlock; I would stand by his wishes in these moments.

I handed Sherlock the needle and morphine bottle, my soul breaking inside of me and watched as Sherlock carefully filled the hypodermic with the final dose. He had always taken such care to provide a dose that would give him the high he desired without getting close to death. It was chilling to know that now he was taking that amount of care to provide himself a dose that he knew would end his life. When he spoke next I was not remotely prepared for what he said.

"I know you always viewed this as my greatest weakness. I am certain that it is difficult to see me choose this as my end. I'm grateful that you are here anyway" Sherlock said, his voice wavering slightly and conveying the shame that he felt. It hurt me, not only to think that he thought that I viewed him as weak because of his drug use but that he was worried about something like that at a moment like this.

With a boldness that surprised even myself, I grasped Sherlock's face between my hands so that he could look into my eyes which I knew would show no signs of shame. The water I saw in his cerulean eyes reflected back at me gave me strength when I thought it would break me more.

"Sherlock, I have never once thought of you as weak and I certainly do not think that now" I told him, my voice shaking with adoration and fear "If I ever made a big deal of your drug habit it was only because I worried about your health; it was never because I thought it made you weak of character. For every moment of every day I have ever known you, I have felt nothing but admiration and respect for you. I do not judge you for what you are doing now; the only thought that is consuming my mind at the moment is how much I am going to miss you. The only thing I'm thinking of is how every moment is precious because I get to spend it with you"

I couldn't have planned the words if I had tried; they were purely an expression of the dear affection I felt for my loyalist friend. Even though I hadn't planned it, they were obviously the exact words Sherlock had needed to hear. He closed his eyes against the emotion he felt and I pretended to not notice the water spilling over his eye lashes. It took him several moments to speak and I could tell that he was completely overcome.

"I have done nothing to deserve to have a friend like you" Sherlock finally said, his voice strained, from emotion and pain, "But I am thankful I have you all the same. And I am glad that you are with me now."

The cabin was so quiet; the only sound was the occasional crackle of the fire in the fireplace behind us or the howl of wind against the windows but the quiet felt more sonorous than any sound I had ever heard. I watched with pressing horror as Sherlock rolled up his sleeve to expose his pale arm, already horribly crossed with tract marks that he had not let me notice so far. If I had not felt the press of my pulse in my ears, I would have been convinced my heart stopped; my chest felt cold and empty as I saw the inevitable happen. As he pressed that needle close to his flesh, my mind was overwhelmed with a million thoughts and memories we had shared together, ones that would never have an encore. As Sherlock's life was soon to end, it was still my life that was flashing before my eyes as if even then my mind knew that this was effectively the end of my life too.

Though Sherlock's hand poised the needle over his vein for several, excruciating moments, his shaky hand finally gave up trying to press it into his flesh. With a huff of frustration at his perceived weakness, he lowered his hand; after all of this, he couldn't do it.

"It is not as easy as I imagined, turning my illicit companion into my killer" Sherlock said with a tone of his old humor despite his still watery eyes.

Sherlock had found that though he wanted to end his life on his own terms, pushing that drug into his veins was not something that he could do. I had a few seconds of relief, my limbs shaking in release, my breath coming easy, thinking that it was over. I had at most ten seconds of bliss, thinking that he was not going to die today and then I noticed it.

Sherlock was holding the syringe out for me to take.

A horror and dread like nothing I had ever experienced flooded through my body. I had not felt this sense of imposing disaster and damnation my entire life; not on the battle field as I taken lives of the enemy, not as a student when my actions had inadvertently caused the death of my patients, not on the numerous occasions when Sherlock's consulting had put me directly in the path of lunatics and killers….never.

The irony was not lost on me; Sherlock's remark haunted me then and in the coming days and weeks. Morphine, that dreadful drug, had been Sherlock's companion in moments of depression and mental despair and now it would be his murderer. And I, the person he considered his dearest friend, would be the one to administer it.

I wanted nothing more than to refuse. I would pay dearly for this, I knew; in this life by the torture of my own mind and in the next by the judgement to come. But even so, I knew I could not refuse. After all of this, after every ridiculous thing Sherlock had ever asked me to do, I could not refuse to do this one last act for him.

My hands were betrayingly steady as I took the syringe from Sherlock; I could see that same pure fear in his eyes but also a strange sense of relief. I do not think that I had realized until that moment just how terribly weary Sherlock was. To be sure, I had been keenly aware since he'd told me of his illness how sick he looked and how he seemed to look sicker every day. But it was only in that moment that I saw how deep the dark circles round his eyes were, how thin and wasted his face was, how truly he had clear effects of his wasting illness all over his body. There was a reason it was called consumption; it took everything out of its victims until there was nothing left. The final rest would be a welcome relief.

I had paused for apparently too long, staring at the needle when Sherlock said, "Do it quick; do not let your soldier's courage desert you now"

It was Sherlock's way of telling me the quicker I did it, the less traumatic it would be but I felt anything but courageous in that moment. "This is the hardest thing I have ever had to do" I admitted, though perhaps I shouldn't have.

Sherlock merely nodded. "I know" he said. It shook me to hear respect for me in his tone.

Before I could muse on it any longer, I pressed the needle against his skin and pressed down the syringe. When I saw the emptiness of the syringe, a felt a pure rush of panic. It was done now; there was nothing I could do.

I could not help it; my eyes filled with tears and spilled over, silently running down the side of my face. I tossed the syringe away as far as I could and I was relieved when Sherlock wrapped his cold, long fingers around my own and pulled me closer. I was not alone in my silent cries as Sherlock looked back at me and simply said, "Thank you"

Thank you! They were such bitter words to hear at that moment. I did not deserve thanks; I had been brave but I wished I had been a coward. I regretted it the second I had done it but I was not going to let Sherlock see that in his last moments. As a heavy drug user, I had no idea how long it would take for him to go under and I wanted to make it as easy as possible.

Sherlock's hands shook against my own and squeezed them tightly in my own. Sherlock closed his eyes, as if soaking in the feel of it, just as I was doing, for several moments before he abruptly broke free and took my face in his hands. I could not bear the loss of contact and placed my hands over his as he held me. It was a wonder to me that until Sherlock's illness, I barely knew the feel of his flesh and now I felt like I needed it more than air.

"John, I must tell you something very important before I go…something I have never had the courage to say" Sherlock said, his words full of urgency despite the slight drawl they already had from fatigue.

My stomach twisted in knots and I felt like being ill; this was it…the end was really near now and it sent a wave of fresh tears through my eyes. "Anything, Sherlock…please tell me anything and everything you wish to say" I managed to force out, holding his hands a little tighter.

Sherlock's tears stopped for a moment, his entire attention fully focused on me. I felt unworthy of it; he had so little time left and all of it was focused on me.

"I love you, John"

I cannot even express what I felt in that moment. Sherlock had always been a man of eloquent speech, a man of many words and yet all those words had not affected me as that one simple phrase did. While Sherlock had always been caring in some ways his behavior toward other people, myself included, had often seemed very alien as well. He cared about people, his work showed that, but he didn't always know how to act around them. When he had told me mere days ago how he cared for me, I was stunned; none of his behavior over the years would have revealed that to me. And though this perhaps should not have affected me as much as it did since he had revealed that, it did. This was not sidestepping the issue, this was not flowery language to cover up how he really felt; this was just the simple truth.

A strong impulse seized me and though I knew Sherlock surely felt it, I knew he would not act on it out of respect for me. So, I did.

I barely had to move to make my lips graze against his. It was just barely a touch, one I could easily pull away from still if I wanted to. I could hear Sherlock's rattling breath catch in his throat, from surprise for once and not because of his illness. He was motionless against me, frozen, seeing how far I would take it. When I pressed my lips more insistently against his, it felt awkward for all of two moments before Sherlock was consuming me and all thoughts passed out of my mind.

It should have felt wrong; it should have felt immoral and dangerous but it didn't. It felt like gentle fingers tracing my cheeks, fluttering eye lashes against my own, soft lips delicately learning mine; it felt like nothing else I had ever known. I knew that I would never be the same after this day; it had shown me true affection and pure despair. Nothing but Sherlock's imminent death could have given him the courage to tell me how he felt; nothing but the same could have given me the courage to do this.

It was a sanctuary that I never wanted to end. We were alone on that beach, in that cabin, simply with each other, daring to feel things that we had never felt and never would again. I poured everything into it; all of our years, all of our experiences of loss and fear and exhilaration I tried to convey in every touch of my lips and fingers against his flesh and I could tell he did the same. It was so perfect for a moment the very world seemed to stop; for a glorious moment that was all there was. No tuberculosis, no sick room, so morphine to end Sherlock's life. Just us….

I was utterly terrified when I felt Sherlock's movements grow slower and more languid against me until he broke away from me fully. I knew what it meant even though I could not bear it. When Sherlock's head fell back against the pillow in fatigue, I did my best to not let him see how scared I was but I was sure that his instant ability for deduction betrayed me. Still, Sherlock smiled as he closed his eyes, fighting the draining pull of the drug.

"Would that I could do that forever….but I am too tired" Sherlock managed to say slowly, labored.

My heart was racing inside my chest like a freight train, my own breath hard to come by as anxiety threatened to overtake me. With all of the resolve I could manage, I smiled at Sherlock, looking down at him as I touched his already cooling cheek. "I love you too, Sherlock" I said, surprised at the wide grin that crossed my face as I spoke those forbidden words. "I think I have for quite some time." As soon as I said, I knew it was true. In ways that I didn't understand and would not accept fully, I had always harbored the deepest affection for him.

Sherlock smiled, a familiar smugness coming across his pale face for the very last time. "I think perhaps you have" he agreed.

His look of bliss faded away slowly and was replaced by his fluttering eye lids. "I am so tired….."This time when he said it, it sounded more like 'I'm frightened'. He knew just as much as I did what this meant.

I did not need to have his deductive abilities to know what to do; I wrapped my arms around his gaunt body and pulled him close to me. His head lay against my heart, no doubt hearing how it raced in my chest, my head laying atop his. I would not let go until he did.

"That is okay, Sherlock. You can rest now" It broke my heart to say those words but I knew that Sherlock needed me to say them. He needed my permission to go.

Sherlock's fingers knotted tightly in my shirt, holding onto it like a life preserver. "Keep talking, John. I want to hear your voice" he said, a begging tone creeping into his words.

If he wanted to hear my voice, then I was determined to keep speaking until he could no longer hear me. Pulling him closer to me, holding him as if I could protect him still, I let my words flow.

I do not even know what all I said but I was thankful the words kept coming. I spoke of our cases, of nights shared together in Baker Streets as flat mates, I sang hymns and poems…anything I thought would bring him any measure of comfort. And I hope it did….

Sherlock relaxed against me, asleep long before the drug took its full affect but I still let my words flow, hopeful he could still hear me in his dreaming state. When I dared to look down at his sleeping form, he seemed so peaceful and calm finally I could almost forgive myself for what I had done.

I was bracing myself for the last. I had attended enough death beds to be fearful of the end. No one wanted to admit it but watching someone else die could be a muddled, terrifying experience. I was afraid that in the quiet of the cabin I would be startling aware of Sherlock's passing when a loud, haunting death rattle left him. When his breaths grew steadily shallower and shallower, I was conceived that any moment my words would be broken off by the sound of his last breath being ripped from his body as if by an extremal force.

Instead, it was so quiet I nearly missed it. I had him cradled against me, whispering words that I cannot remember now, when he blew out one small, last breath; I did not realize it was the last until his body grew slack against mine and he did not breathe again.

Being in the army had given me the feeling, even after leaving service, that my life would end in a dangerous, explosive way; living on the edge of danger with Sherlock also made me feel my death would be meaningful and daring. And so I was unprepared for mine coming to an end with one last little sigh.

And just like that…it was over.

Sherlock was at peace and I was not.

….

It had been of extreme importance to Sherlock that no one suspect that I aided him in ending his life; equally important to him was no one knowing that he had committed suicide because society frowned on it so. Though he had acted as if his popularity with the public meant nothing to him it was obvious that he did not want his great deeds to be wiped away by the circumstances of his passing. Though I had planned well before the undertaker came what I would need to say to ensure that Sherlock's wishes were met, it was all for naught. Sherlock's body told clearly the waste of consumption and no one questioned it.

The days after Sherlock's passing were a blur to me. I returned to London by train, as did Sherlock; though of course, Sherlock was not sharing my carriage with me this time. There was the return to my home, and my wife….had I not felt like a member of the dead myself I might have felt guilty in her presence, recalling my behavior with Sherlock. But, I did not feel guilty because I did not feel anything. Since Sherlock's passing, I had not even been able to shed tears. Not when he passed, not when I held his lifeless form, not when I passed him along to the undertaker….that would all come later.

The papers were full of Sherlock's praises; all of London and even among the globe it was said that he was greatest detective there ever was. They were right about that; everywhere I went people gave me their condolences and I did my best to relate to their stories of how helpful and brilliant he had been in their life. I could not tell anyone what I really wanted to say about him…about the secret we had shared in the last days of his life. Neither could I tell anyone about the guilt that gnawed its way through my soul more and more every day as I relived the moment of plunging that needle into his vein.

Sherlock's funeral was a grand event; in life he would have said that he did not care about such things but I knew that if he could see us from the afterlife he would have been pleased. As the ornate carriage that carried his casket from the church to the cemetery crawled down the street, first dozens then hundreds of people were following behind it. At bends in the road all traffic stopped for us; others hung out of windows to watch the procession pass. He was buried on one of the coldest days of years passed; snow falling heavily and freezing on the ground did not deter our sad journey. Dozens of people shared words for Sherlock and it was only night falling that stopped it at that. I was chief the mourner, giving Sherlock's eulogy, draped in deepest mourning. I said my peace and then they put him in the Holmes family mausoleum; hours later, with my fingers and toes number from the cold, I still stared at the grand marble enclosure, not believing Sherlock would be hidden in there for all of eternity. Buried…..only days after his 46th birthday.

It was not until the first time that I returned to 221B after Sherlock's passing that I finally shed tears for him. I had gone there with the simple task of going through his possessions and in my numb state did not realize how painful it would be. When I walked into that flat, the one he and I had shared for many years, the one that spoke of Sherlock no matter where I looked, I snapped. Among the scientific journals, books, moldy newspapers and dust I fell upon my knees and wept until I fell asleep, completely exhausted with the world as it was without Sherlock.

Though I was no longer numb, I was wracked with guilt and sorrow that I could not recover from at the point. As time went on, things only got worse rather than better. Since I could not bear to go through Sherlock's things and equally could not imagine someone else doing it, I paid our old landlady Mrs. Hudson to keep his flat. This did not go over well with my wife, nor did mine spending more and more time there, alone with my grief. Though she had been sympathetic in the beginning, as time went on she could not understand my deep level of mourning for someone that was supposedly just an old friend of mine. The arguing and discontent that had been there before Sherlock's passing was only worse now since I no longer put any effort into trying to repair the damage. Eventually, my wife went home to her family and I did not stop her; the separation was quiet and mutual.

I continued to work in my practice as much as my grief and failing health would allow. Though I had never been once hundred perfectly healthy after my discharge from the army, I was a relatively healthy man and it surprised even me how poorly my health suffered due to my grief. Eventually, no matter the effort I put into it, I had to give up my work entirely.

That first morning I woke to a racking cough that left blood on my hand I was surprised. My first wild reaction to it was to laugh; clear proof of how mentally unstable I had become. My first thought was that I wished Sherlock was there to tell him he was wrong in his assumption that I was "endowed with the blessing that the Creator has given to physicians to be more able to resist illness" as he had said. It was the only thing he had ever been wrong about. Maybe the disease was a curse as Sherlock had said; that I was being cursed for what I had done. My dark passions for Sherlock…my helping him die in a way that cheated fate…either way I found that I was too tired and weak to care.

That night, as I sat by the fire, twirling the syringe in my fingers and contemplated the morphine bottle, I did not feel fear. This was the way Sherlock had gone and he had felt fear but there was one major difference between him and me. He was leaving this world for the unknown and it was rational that he should be afraid. I was leaving this world for him and that did not fill me with any sense of fear. The only hesitation, the only worry in my mind was that I was doing this alone but I bolstered myself with one last thought:

I would be beginning this alone but I would not end it alone.


End file.
